


Like the Sun, We Will Live to Rise

by citizenjess (givehimonemore)



Category: The Avengers (Marvel Movies), Thor (Movies)
Genre: F/M, Fix-It, Gen, Loki (Marvel) Lives, M/M, Post-Avengers: Infinity War Part 1 (Movie)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-05-08
Updated: 2018-05-08
Packaged: 2019-05-03 21:48:30
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,229
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14578371
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/givehimonemore/pseuds/citizenjess
Summary: Post-war, and between infinities, Thor works to pick up the pieces of all he has lost.





	Like the Sun, We Will Live to Rise

**Author's Note:**

> I'm on a bit of a Thorki kick lately. Sorry? I'm certain I am at least the hundredth person or so to attempt a 'fix-it 'fic' following the events of Infinity War, but there you go. Title is from Soundgarden's "Live to Rise," from the credits of the first Avengers movie.

Stark Tower still stands, albeit somewhat less grandly than Before. Thor and his fellow survivors, also significantly less grand in both number and spirit, are nonetheless collectively grateful for a refuge devoid of sophisticated discussions of allyship or the like, as well as the opportunity to occupy fairly isolated quarters without anyone mistaking for rudeness the need for grieving space.

Thor himself chooses one of the upper floors, which he appears to have to himself. He wouldn't have minded the company of Banner, or even his new rabbit friend ('Rocket,' Groot had proffered in between rounds on some Midgardian video game console); it might even keep him from lingering on all he and the rest of the cosmos had lost. At the same time, a remaining part of him needs to navel-gaze (figuratively, of course, since he did not actually have a navel), to sit with his heartbreak and disgust and shock and even the general apathy that had crept in regarding his overall will to live. He had told Steve quite flatly that he believed them both to be the targets of some cruel Karmic indebtedness to a universe that would not allow them to die until they had fulfilled a considerable number of deeds. It had not been so long ago that he had accepted such a destiny with a rather jovial shrug, a blithe "That's what heroes do" falling from his mouth as he swung Mjolnir around with his mighty force. Now, of course, Mjolnir is gone, as well as pretty much everything Thor had ever held dear, and even his best attempt at a fake smile these days is pathetic.

One of the balconies on the top floor juts out a ways to survey the remains of the city. It is a testament to the burroughs' sprawling growth that, even with half of their inhabitants having been quite literally dusted out of existence, they yet persist to appear lively, even crowded. It would have been a somewhat comforting thought if he'd let it, but he has no one and nothing to put on an optimistic demeanor for, and so back to metaphorical navel-gazing it is.

It is increasingly difficult not to pontificate on all that has been lost. In one of his lowest points, before Ragnarok, somehow both a lifetime and scant weeks ago at once, he had garnered some minuscule solace from prayer. It had helped to retain memories of his father as the man Thor believed Odin would want to be remembered as, complicated, to be sure, though not without honor. 

Briefly, he wonders who, now, will take the time to remember him when it is at last his time to go. Then, he shakes his head, almost angrily. Rebelling, against whom or what, he isn't sure, but he proceeds to continue standing, rather than assuming the ceremonial kneeling position typical of one paying their respects to the dead. He would have liked it that way, anyway: "Loki." The name hurts. He stares down into the dusk and clutches at a railing. "I bid you," he continues, "take your place in the halls of Valhalla, where the brave shall live forever." His eyes sting, both the original and the replacement, courtesy of Rocket, the smallest of courtesies, but a welcome one, no less. 

The end of the verse feels blasphemous to say. He can no more rejoice in his brother's torturous death than he can resurrect Mjolnir, or forget his brief time spent with Jane Foster. (He makes a decidedly sharp effort not to begin pontificating on Jane Foster.) "Nor," he begins, and has to start and stop again. "Nor shall we mourn, but rejoice," he manages to get out eventually, "for those that have died the glorious death."

"Jumping the gun a little, I daresay."

The voice knifes through him. At this point in his lengthy existence, Thor Odinson has survived the blast of a dying star. The pain that accompanies the soft, lilting tenor from somewhere close behind him is even worse. 

He does not turn around. "Strange is gone," he emits in a dull rasp. "I can't think of anyone else stupid enough to attempt to pull off such an ... illusion."

The reply he receives is somewhat more baleful. "I am a fool, after all."

Finally, he turns, bracing himself. Even so, the appearance of his brother, in all of his understated glory, standing just inside of his open doorway, blurs his vision. "You are a fool," he repeats. "You were supposed to go with them." He holds out the barest hope that they - Valkyrie, Korg, the scant few others who escaped from the ship en route from the ruins of Asgard - also survived.

"I did," Loki intones.

"You were supposed to stay with them!" 

Loki's visage is somewhat less charming now. "I did," he repeats. 

Thor shakes his head, but takes a minuscule step forward. "It was too real," he argues. "I remember the sound of, I felt the weight of your - I'm tired of mourning a man who keeps ending up not being dead!"

Loki has grace enough to grimace slightly. "I'm sure one of these days, it won't be a complete waste of time," he jokes. He falters when Thor's face grows even more miserable. "I'm sorry, brother," he says, pretense no longer quirking the corners of his mouth. "I yield."

"It's about time." Thor crosses the expanse between them in brisk strides. His hand reaching to wrap around the back of Loki's neck is reflexive, borne of an expansive brotherhood filled with roughhousing, and continuing into the present as a means of affectionate control. Then, the expectation of bruising, followed by the realization that, of course, there won't be any, manifests physically in him simply flexing his hand near Loki's ear once or twice, and then dropping it awkwardly at his own side. "Sorry," he begins to say himself, but Loki once again surprises him, picking up his hand and placing it back against his neck. Thor's rough fingers twine around a splay of dark ringlets with the utmost gentleness, and though his brother's grip is quite restrained, there is a firmness to it that is simply Thor.

"I can feel it, you know." Loki's expression is plain, but he leans slightly into Thor's touch. "The energy of holding an illusion for so long takes its toll. There's no marks, but it still hurt, and then the contact gets severed, and-"

"Hush." Thor tugs, and Loki allows himself to be pulled closer, until their foreheads touch. "Stay," he tells him. "Don't make me say 'goodbye' again so soon."

Their noses brush, now. "I didn't exactly have time to get a hotel room for tonight," Loki replies, and Thor's snort is only minimally exasperated. 

Releasing the hold slightly, he turns to glance at the ever-darkening sky, just outside of the room's open bay windows. "Yes, the sun's getting low," he remarks, almost smiling, though Loki isn't quite sure why. He watches his brother's gaze become almost lost in the encroaching night, and then slowly catches his eye and grounds him here anew. 

"The sun will rise again," he proffers, still a little bemused. This time, he doesn't have to guide Thor's hands to him. His brother makes a noise somewhere between a sigh and a sob, and within it comes his choked, grateful reply:

"It already has."


End file.
